Mad About Undead You by Carl Plumer (read novels website txt) 📕

A Novel by Carl S. Plumer

MAD ABOUT

UNDEAD YOU

A ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE LOVE STORY

www.somedaypress.com

Chapter 17.

Cathren stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. The face that looked back was smooth, almost no wrinkles. The skin clear and healthy. Her hair long, soft, and mostly straight with just a hint of a wave here and there. Her green eyes bright and alive.

She’d been Homecoming Queen at both high school and college, and over time had become convinced that men were superficially attracted to her—to her “shell,” not her soul. She didn’t believe any man had ever loved the Cathren who lived just under the smooth skin, the pretty face. No one, that is, until now.

And just when she thought that maybe for the first time in her life she might have found someone real—this man, Donovan—she was falling apart, accelerated decomposition of some kind. As if God wouldn’t let her have both love and looks at the same time.

She sniffled and grabbed a tissue to blow her nose, feeling sorrier for herself with each “toot” in the tissue.

Cathren, in a daze, opened the bathroom door at last and tottered back slowly into the living room. She dropped like a cadaver onto the couch. She slid deeper into the cushion, until her head rested on the back of the couch. She stared up at the ceiling and sighed. “This is bad,” she muttered. “This is real bad....”

She was talking to herself, but Donovan answered anyway. “Yeah, no kidding. You need medical attention,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to alarm you, but that thing on your head—”

“It’s not a thing, asshole.”

“Okay, fine, the wound, whatever it is. What do I know? But it doesn’t look good.”

She sighed again, exhaling her fears into the room. She said nothing for a minute. Then she got up. She took her purse from where she’d dropped it by the door, pulled out a silver compact, and sat back down. “Dammit,” she said, studying the wound as she powdered it. “Dammit.”

When it was clear that powder wouldn’t make a difference, she undid her pony tail and shook her hair out, fluffing it with her fingers. She brushed her bangs down and across the wound, as if pulling a shade down to hide it.

“Ugh. I’m so ugly.” Cathren held compact up to the injury. She tilted the little mirror up and down and back and forth to get a better view, light reflecting from it onto the wound as if someone were taking photos with a flash. Tears filled her eyes, and one broke free to trickle down her cheek. “I look like a freak.” She snapped her compact shut and stared at the monogram on it for a second: CW. She tossed it back into her purse as if she was throwing it in the garbage.

They were silent for a few minutes. Donovan stood in front of her, his hands loose at his sides, unconsciously biting his lip. He tried not to stare at the lump, yet he couldn’t look away. He didn’t have any idea what to say in a situation like this. Other than suggest, again, that he take her to have it looked at.

“No, no. Can’t do that.” She curled her legs up under her on the couch and slouched just a little. “You forget, I’m a wanted woman.”

Donovan sat next to her on the couch. “They said on the news that you needed medical help, that’s all. Nothing about you being a criminal or anything.”

“Yeah, right. How many people have you seen whose picture is splattered all over cable news because they need medical treatment?”

“Well, um, none.”

“Right. Fugitives only. They want me safely put away. Gone. I know too much.”

“Come on, I think you’re being a bit paranoid. Maybe you really did catch something there when you ran into those buildings. I smelled stuff. Chemical smells. That’s probably what got into you.”

“Trust me. I’m a problem and they want to make the problem go away. I know these guys at ATELIC. Monsters.”

“You can’t know anything like that. You make it sound so sinister.”

“It is. It’s as bad as I’m painting it to be.” She sighed again, loud, as if she was expelling her last breath. “Look, I work for them. I mean, blogging doesn’t pay the bills. Not yet, anyway.”

“You’re working for ATELIC now?”

“Yes, as a contractor. Just for the past few weeks.”

“The cryonics people?” Donovan shook his head back and forth, trying to absorb this unexpected information.

Cathren sat up and leaned forward, her hands on her knees, holding her head. “Don’t judge me, all right? I didn’t know they were evil when I took the gig. And I was never really sure. Not until last night.”

The icepack he gave her was still on the floor where she’d dropped it. He reached over and picked it up. When he sat back up, she had crossed her legs and her arms, as if to lock herself away, and had closed her eyes. It was the wrong moment, but Donovan couldn’t help noticing how pretty she was. Some hero I am, he thought. She’s here for me to save her, and all I want is to get into her pants.

“When you’re done looking me over,” she said, eyes still closed, “what do you suggest we do next?”

Donovan startled slightly, as if he was stung by an angry, yet pretty, bee. “What? Yeah, well, I think I should take you to the hospital.”

“Not now.” Cathren rested her head on the back of the couch. “Right now, I’m really dead. I just want to rest. And to be here with you.”

“Why don’t you lie down in the bedroom, then?” She opened one eye and gave him a funny look. “No, seriously, to rest. It’s cooler in there, and it’s away from all the street noise.”

She smiled. “I guess,” she said, getting up—

And she almost immediately fell down again.

This time, Donovan was able to catch her before she hit anything. She was out cold. As he held her in his arms, he was struck again how lovely she was. But he was struck at the same time that her egg appeared to have grown. That the skin around it seemed exceptionally dry and cracked. As if it was, against all logic, putrefying. He leaned his head in toward hers, then jerked it back. That stink. He’d smelled it before, long ago, in chemistry class. Sulfur. Rotten eggs.

He carried her to the bed, lost in thought, and was about to lay her on top of the comforter when she opened her eyes.

And smiled.

Her green eyes filled with something that looked a lot like love. And the bump started to heal. Slowly, like a reverse-time special effect, the bump shrank. The wound healed.

“It’s gone,” he said.

“What?”

“There’s no bump. No cut. No hideously disintegrating flesh, no egg-white skull emerging from your forehead. That’s it, I am losing my mind.”

He leaned in and examined every square inch of her smooth, soft, radiant face again, from forehead to chin and back again. Twice. No wound. No bruise. No scar. In fact, no imperfections at all. His eyes drifted down from her forehead to her green eyes.

And then he kissed her.

Donovan carried Cathren to the bed and laid her down. Then he unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the floor. He slowly kissed her shoulders, noticing for the first time her seashell tattoo, a small pink nautilus.

“That’s nice,” he said. “What’s it mean?”

“I love the sea, that’s all. I’d like to live by it, right on top of it.”

“Good luck. Property costs for waterfront—”

“Geez, it’s just a dream, my island dream. Now, stop talking and kiss me.”

Donovan was happy to oblige. He kissed her neck first, and then the very top of her chest, just above her breast.

He undid her bra and dropped it to the floor. He kissed her shoulder again, then the top of one breast, and then the other. He could smell her perfume, a subtle mix of musk and honeysuckle. Her lips tasted of cherry-vanilla and her mouth cinnamon. They pulled each other closer in a stronger embrace. Their tongues still entwined, he lay on top of her, and slowly pushed his pelvis against hers. When Donovan gently pulled his tongue out of her mouth, her tongue came with it, falling onto her chest. The disembodied tongue slid down her chest until it reached the soft trap of her cleavage.

“Oh, fagh!” she yelled, which he took to be tongueless for “Oh, fuck!”

She grabbed her tongue and her blouse and, crying, ran back to the bathroom, slamming the door loudly.

Donovan lay on the bed, his pants down by his ankles, stunned. What the fuck? he thought. What the fucking fuck! What is going on with her? What’s happening to us? He stood up and pulled his pants back on while her cries echoed down the hall. Hard stuttering gasps and sobs.

Donovan knocked gently on the bathroom door, his erection fading with the setting sun outside. “Baby?” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Ooo!” Cathren said from inside the bathroom. Her meaning was clear: “Nooo!”

“I think I should take you to the hospital,” Donovan said.

“Ooo!”

“Please, Cathren, open up. Let me get your tongue and put it on ice. Let me get you to the emergency room.”

He sighed and leaned against the door. She didn’t say a word or even make a sound.

“In case you’re worried,” he whispered, his lips almost touching the door, “I’ve seen a lot worse. Believe me.”

“Uh-uh,” she said. No tongue needed to say that.

“Baby, honey, this is an emergency. I don’t think you understand. This is no time to be worried about appearances.” He waited for her to respond. Nothing. “Modern doctors can do miracles these days. Hell, I bet there’s even a cosmetic surgeon who could make it look brand new again. I mean once the thing’s been successfully reattached.”

“No,” she said from the other side of the door. “It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

Donovan stepped back from the door, surprised to hear Cathren’s normal voice again. He could hear her sniffling and blowing her nose and gently crying a bit more.

Then she opened the door, wiping her eyes. Her eyelids were streaked with smudged mascara as if someone ran an ink-covered rag across her eyes. Her lip gloss was smeared from kissing, and her chin was red from where his stubble had irritated it. To Donovan, she looked absolutely stunning.

“I’m fine, really,” she sniffed, wiping a finger under her nose. “See?” She stuck out her tongue.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. What’s happening to you?”

“I don’t know,” she said as they walked back to the living room. “I’m scared, Don. I’m real scared.”

He picked up her hand; that is, he simply put her hand in his. Her hand, for now at least, was still attached to her arm and her arm to her body. He led her to the couch.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” she sobbed. “I just can’t.” She let go of his hand. “I need to leave. I—I’m sorry.”

“No, not at all,” Donovan said, following her to the door. He desperately wanted to hold her. But he knew it would not help, would not make anything right for her.

“Well, if you need a friend, or whatever,” he said, sounding helpless. He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her lips away from him and he ended up kissing her ear. “Just call me,” he whispered. “Please.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Donovan wasn’t sure how long he stared at that door, but it was long enough for his apartment to grow dark, so much so that he almost couldn’t see.

Night had fallen, and so had Donovan Codell.

CARL PLUMER was born in New York City and holds degrees in English and Writing. PLUMER has spent his life surrounded by